Introduction

Who We Are and What We Bring

Yá’ át’ ééh. Mark Charles yinishyé. Tsin bikee dine’é nishłí. Dóó tó’aheedlíinii bá shíshchíín. Tsin bikee’ dine’é dashicheii. Dóó tódích’ íi’ nii dashinálí.

Hello. My name is Mark Charles. In the Diné culture, when you introduce yourself, you always give your four clans. We are a matrilineal people, and our identities come from our mother’s mother. My maternal grandmother is American of Dutch heritage, and so I say tsin bikee’ dine,’ which translates as “the Wooden Shoe People.” My paternal grandmother is from the Water Flows Together People. My maternal grandfather is also from the Wooden Shoe clan, and my paternal grandfather is of the Bitterwater clan, one of the original clans of our Diné people.

My mother, Evelyn Natelborg, and my father, Theodore Charles, were married less than two years after the historic Supreme Court ruling of Loving v. Virginia. This ruling, in 1967, invalidated all anti-miscegenation laws in the United States. Believe it or not, prior to 1967, interracial marriage was still illegal in many states throughout the United States. I encourage you to pause and ponder that for a moment. And it was not until 1967 that interracial marriage was legalized at the federal level throughout the entire United States.

In 2004, after pastoring a small church called the Christian Indian Center for two years, I moved with my family from Denver, Colorado, to the Navajo Reservation, located in the four corners area of the southwest United States. The Navajo Nation still resides on much of what we call Dinétah, our traditional lands located between our four sacred mountains. The eleven-year period we lived on our reservation was one of the hardest yet most rewarding experiences of my life. Never have I felt more lonely, isolated, and marginalized from both the church and our country yet more secure and grounded both in my humanity as well as in my identity as the son of a Navajo father and an American mother of Dutch heritage. And it is from that space that I would like to invite you into a conversation about race, culture, and faith.

This dialogue will not be easy. It will involve a history many would be happy to forget, and it will challenge a mythology that most would prefer to remain unchallenged. But it is a necessary conversation and one that has been put off for far too long. You may find significant portions of the book uncomfortable and disquieting. That’s OK. I encourage you to stay engaged. This conversation will not be easy, but I am convinced that we can get to a better place.

My name is Soong-Chan Rah. I was born in Seoul, South Korea, and immigrated to the United States shortly after my sixth birthday. Raised in an immigrant family, an urban environment, and in the context of economic poverty, I have experienced a range of life settings in the American social fabric. I was raised in a single-parent family in the inner city of Baltimore and in the suburbs of Washington, DC, native land of the Piscataway people. My father faced many challenges as an immigrant to the United States. His failure to adjust to life in America and his inability to carve a path forward as a Korean in a white man’s world were both factors in the breakup of our family.

Despite these significant challenges, my mother’s deep commitment to her children and her spiritual strength equipped her to keep our family together. She worked long hours at an inner-city carry-out complete with bulletproof plexiglass. She would follow this day job with a night shift at an inner-city nursing home, working as a nurse’s aide. Despite working these long hours, money was always short, so our family was on food stamps and the school free-lunch program for several years. Years later, a United States president would label single moms who received help from the government as “welfare queens” with a strong implication of their laziness. I know of no single human being who worked harder than my mother to keep her family together. To this day, I am stunned by the power of the collective imagination to embrace a false narrative that became the norm for many Americans.

For our family, connection to our immigrant church community and commitment to education served as the way out of the hood. The Korean immigrant church of my youth provided for our family the spiritual resources of a faith community that embodied Christ. The immigrant church arose from a context of struggle, pain, and suffering. Even in the midst of these struggles, this church would thrive and grow as it sought to serve and lift up the oftentimes downtrodden of our society. Education was valued in our home and in the Korean immigrant church. As a consequence, I have spent an inordinate amount of time in school. I have pursued theological studies partially as a result of how education and faith have intersected in my life.

I have had the distinct pleasure of serving multiethnic and multicultural Christian communities, often in the urban context. After many years in pastoral ministry, God directed me toward fulfilling my call to ministry through the academic world, specifically at North Park Theological Seminary, where I have sought to integrate my passion for Christian ministry with academic thought.

The coauthors of this book have been friends for many years. We have traveled and ministered in many of the same circles and have found connection with those who are like-minded and like-“passioned.” Our connection stems from our mutual love for Jesus and our mutual passion for justice, both of which have found expression in our mutual lament for the church. In our journey together, we have discovered the power of developing common experiences and a common memory, which move us toward a common purpose.

Much of this book describes history’s impact on the Native peoples of North America. Whenever possible, we will refer to the specific tribal names when referring to Native communities. In other instances, the terms Native, Native American, and indigenous people may also be used as more general categories of identification. Occasionally we will use the term American Indian(s), which is often referenced in treaties and legislation by the United States federal government.

The book is primarily the story of Mark, his people, and their relationship to the church and to the nation. Mark’s voice will be front and center in the narrative and will provide the melody, while Soong-Chan’s role will be to provide the harmony to complement the main narrative. We hope that this book will serve as a unique chorus of both of our experiences and voices. May it be an expression of the truth we have learned and the power of common memory.

THE SPIRITUALITY OF THE SUNRISE

I (Mark) remember hearing a Navajo preacher exhort a congregation on our reservation by asking us, “How come, before the missionaries came, our people were able to wake up every morning to greet the sunrise with our prayers, and now we can hardly get to church by 10 a.m.?”

One of the most beautiful, beneficial, and sacred spiritual disciplines I have incorporated into my life is the discipline of watching the sunrise. It is one thing to watch the sunrise a couple times a year, perhaps on Easter for a sunrise service or when you have a 6 a.m. flight. Both times are beautiful and calming. If the clouds are just right, the sunrise can be breathtaking. But it is another thing altogether to intentionally rise five or six mornings a week and to be in a posture of prayer while watching the sun come up over the horizon.

When you do this, you notice something very different. Yes, it is beautiful, peaceful, and often breathtaking. But when you do it day after day, week after week, month after month, and eventually, year after year, something else happens. Subtle changes become glaring.

Every morning in the spring, the sun moves just a little further north; every morning in the fall, the sun inches a bit further south. The birds come and go, migrating in the general direction of the sun’s path. It is quiet. In the spring the sun rises just a minute or two earlier as the days grow longer, and the earth warms as it begins to wake up. And in the fall, the sunrise happens just a minute or two later as the earth cools and prepares to go to sleep.

Even the days on the calendar begin to take on a different meaning. June 21 is the first day of summer, and most of the hemisphere is celebrating. The days are long, the weather is warm, and school is out. Pools are opened, barbeque grills are cleaned, and vacations are planned. But the twenty-first also marks an ending, and you can’t help but feel just a slight mourning, a hint of lament, and a tinge of sadness. Because you don’t just know—you actually see. The sun has completed its journey north, and tomorrow, June 22, it will rise just a moment or two later as it begins another long journey south.

The same is true on the twenty-first of December, the first day of winter. Many people are feeling glum. Winter is starting. The days are short, the weather chilly. Almost no one celebrates the first day of winter, as it marks the start of a long, cold, and dark season. But on that morning, you can’t help but feel excited and find a new spring in your step. The sun has completed its long journey south. The days are through getting shorter, and a new journey is beginning. You are hopeful because you know, you see, and you experience the very next day will be nearly a minute longer as the sun once again begins its slow and hopeful journey north.

Another benefit of watching the sunrise is the beauty of the sky. After a while, you realize it’s not so much a sky as it is a canvas. Creator is not a far off and distant God. Creator is an amazing artist with a personality, an eye for beauty, and even a sense of humor. Every morning is a carefully orchestrated production, complete with a musical score. But the production is not a play or even a musical. The production is the act of creation of a piece of art. The production is the privilege of watching the artist painting the picture, shaping the vase, and arranging the score.

So the beauty is not just the final product; the beauty is seen in watching that piece of artwork come into being. All of creation is both a grateful participant and a privileged observer—not on a single morning but throughout the fullness of the seasons. Birds sing. Flowers bloom. Winds blow. Leaves turn different colors. Clouds pass. Animals stop. And donkeys bray.

Yes, it is true. Even the obnoxious bray of a donkey can add a praiseworthy note to the production. While living on the reservation, my daughter would frequently wake up early and join me as I walked to the top of the hill near our house to watch the sunrise. As we walked up the hill, we could hear in the background birds singing, dogs barking, and the occasional car passing by. But the most distinct yet infrequent noise we heard was that of a donkey braying. We didn’t hear it every day, or even every week. It was sporadic and unpredictable yet surprisingly consistent. Every morning we would listen for it, and each time we heard it my daughter exclaimed, “Daddy! I hear my favorite donkey!”

If you’ve ever heard a donkey’s bray you know that it can be an extremely loud sound that quickly becomes annoying. It usually goes on for several seconds and sounds about as pleasant as an untrained performer with laryngitis attempting to sing opera. Yet as my daughter and I watched the sunrise, we would pray, and whenever we heard it, her prayer included the phrase, “and Jesus, I thank you that I heard my favorite donkey.”

My daughter knew this donkey. She listened for his bray and became filled with joy every time she heard it. Only a masterful artist with impeccable timing, a perfect knowledge of the breadth of the tools available, and a bit of a wacky sense of humor could ever pull off incorporating the annoying sound of a donkey’s bray into something as breathtakingly beautiful as a sunrise and still elicit both joy and praise from the audience.1

But the biggest benefit from this discipline of watching the sunrise has come not from enjoying the beauty or even from experiencing the seasons but from an understanding much deeper in my soul. This understanding did not occur after one sunrise or even after thirty. It began happening after months and years of watching the seasons pass, of observing the birds migrate, of feeling the temperatures rise and then fall. It began happening after experiencing, over and over, the long journey of the sun, first to the north and then again back to the south. The longer I was privileged to see the masterful and artistic genius of Creator, and the longer I was blessed to stand in the midst of the grandeur of this masterpiece, the easier it became to acknowledge that neither I, nor all of humankind for that matter, was in control.

Ultimately, this production is not ours. We cannot make the sun rise faster. We are unable to change the order of the seasons. The birds sing, the flowers bloom, the grass grows, the seasons change—not because of us or even in spite of us, but because of Creator. This work of art, this amazing, ongoing, beautifully choreographed production, is our blessing to observe. It is our privilege to participate in and even our solemn responsibility to steward. But it is not ours to control.

For all of our science, our technology, our air-conditioned buildings, our chemically enhanced soils, our genetically modified foods, our dams, our weapons, our internet, and even our artificial intelligence cannot change that. Over the years I have learned that one of the best ways to remind myself of my limitations is to follow the example of my ancestors. To rise early in the morning, walk (or run) toward the east, and greet the sunrise with my prayers.

THE NEED FOR LAMENT

The assumption of the exceptional character of the American church leads to a belief in the inevitable triumph of the American church. Exceptional people will certainly triumph. The concepts of exceptionalism and triumphalism do not emerge from a proper understanding of the kingdom of God and its relationship over all the nations and kingdoms of the world. Instead, this exceptionalism and triumphalism is rooted specifically in a warped self-perception and theology.

Because of this self-perception that emerges from a dysfunctional theology, acts of aggression and dominance by exceptional people can be deemed as acceptable. At all costs, therefore, the exceptional American church must flourish. The excessive level of triumphalism results in the seeking of human power and human authority to assert the agenda of American Christianity. Ecclesiastical life that emerges from a triumphalist church results in the belief that God has ordained the American church agenda and therefore the actions of the American church—no matter how dysfunctional or destructive—to serve the purpose of God. Excessive celebration of exceptionalism and triumphalism results in the absence of lament for the American church. Human activity is elevated, and God’s activity is diminished.

The spiritual practice of lament could counteract the human tendency towards self-elevation. Lament serves as a crucial expression of worship because it is truth telling before God. Lament recognizes that no matter what the circumstances, God is faithful, and God delivers. We can rely upon God to be faithful to his Word. Without lament, human effort and human success emerge as the driving force in the activity of the church. The message of a messiah who suffered and died for humanity is lost in the avalanche of triumphalism. The practice of lament is a necessary truth telling. This book, therefore, offers a lament over dysfunctional theology and a broken history.

THE PURPOSE AND DIRECTION OF THE TEXT

This text offers the hope that healing can occur when unsettling truths are confronted. For centuries we have kept hidden the stories of the oppressed people in our society. We have embraced the stories of success and exceptionalism rather than engaging the narrative of suffering and oppression. This obsession with the self-elevation of the American church and American society reflects an absence of truth telling. The American church has yielded the prophetic voice because it has not spoken a historical and theological truth.

The absence of truth has resulted in the presence of injustice. This injustice is particularly evident in the systemic racism that often defines American society. This text addresses the glaring need to expose the deceit and lies that mask how the United States operates as a systemically white supremacist nation. We will also challenge the American church in its culpability through either its silence (at best) or affirmation of the elevation of the narrative of American exceptionalism. We will examine the historical and theological roots of systemic racism in the United States with particular attention to the Doctrine of Discovery and its impact on the United States. We will call our nation and the Christian churches of our nation to a truth telling that will begin to shed light and open the door to a future hope.

This book will challenge you to examine the imaginaries and the narratives you have embraced as American Christians or even simply as Americans. Our work of confronting the history of racial injustice requires an examination of the roots of sin that result through this injustice. In chapter one, we introduce the Doctrine of Discovery and how it was formed in the theological imagination of Western imperial culture. In chapter two, we examine how sinful social systems and structures are fueled by mediating narratives and shaped by the social and theological imagination. In chapter three, we examine the difference between the godly authority exercised by Jesus versus the supposed greatness of worldly power. Chapter four offers an overview of the rise of Christendom and its defense by the church. In chapter five, we will explore how the Doctrine of Discovery intersects with the myth of Anglo-Saxon superiority in forming a dysfunctional imagination that influenced American history.

Chapter six traces how the founding documents of the United States are shaped by the narrative of white American Christian exceptionalism. In chapter seven, we discuss how the US legal system codified the dysfunctional imagination of white supremacy in the discovery doctrine. Chapter eight continues the story of the brutal mistreatment and genocide of Native communities and the legal precedent that allowed this brutality. Chapters nine and ten examine how the absence of Christ within the heresy of Christendom led to the creation of a mythological white messiah by the name of Abraham Lincoln. We will discuss how the dysfunctional narrative of white supremacy was not so easily shirked, even by the “Great Emancipator.” In chapter eleven, we explore how this dysfunctional narrative that has held a centuries-long grip on the American imagination has resulted in the trauma of white America (both within and outside the church). Chapter twelve reveals how this trauma has hindered the work of racial conciliation.

Our book concludes with a call for conciliation with a new focus and emphasis that is necessary in order to deal with the deeply rooted dysfunction in our society. Because the more familiar term racial reconciliation implies a preexisting harmony and unity, we propose the use of the term racial conciliation.

Conciliation does not happen without truth telling. Conciliation without truth is trying to bring health without a comprehensive diagnosis. Truth telling requires the deeper examination of the existing narratives and the unearthing of the dysfunction surrounding those narratives. The broken system and the dysfunctional theological imagination that the broken system emerges from must be exposed. Once that broken system is uncovered, an authentic lament rooted in truth can commence. Lament, therefore, emerges from the confrontational nature of truth and our honest response to that truth. Truth telling will liberate the church to write a more biblical narrative that will integrate the lost practice of lament, the power of a shared journey, and the building of a common memory.

This book will examine both the history of the church and of the nation. It will ask uncomfortable questions and expose some horrifying narratives. But God’s love for his creation is amazing. And his passion for the church is undeniable. We can get to a better place and in the end be grateful for the constant prodding of Christ to pursue truth, even if what is revealed serves as unsettling truth.